


Out of the Blue, Into the Black

by GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes



Series: fizzy citrus and smokey fire [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha Hank Anderson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, First Kiss, Getting Together, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Omega Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes/pseuds/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes
Summary: He glances over at Connor out of the corner of his eye. Connor’s looking elsewhere, and Hank feels kind of awkward for looking. They’ve been doing this weird dance lately-- circling around each other as if they are on the same page but too scared to admit it. Or oblivious. Hank doesn’t know what page he’s on, or hell, what book he’s even supposed to be reading.“Want to stop for sandwiches on the way back?” He offers, since it’s almost their lunch hour.“Sure, you can pick the place,” Connor nods. His eyes flick over to Hank, and he cracks a smile. It’s small and sweet, and Hank returns it happily.The little flutter of warmth in his chest only confuses him more.





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve spent SO MUCH time on this!! I’m so so so excited for yall to read this!! But please pay attention to the tags-- this first chapter isn’t as bad but the next one has a lot of violence.
> 
> (fic title comes from "Into the Black" by the Chromatics)

Hank wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. It’s rattling on his nightstand, roughly pulling him out of sleep. With a groan, he rolls onto his back, and blindly reaches for the phone. His hand slaps around the nightstand a few times, then he finds it. His eyes aren’t even open as he hits the answer button.

“Hank Anderson,” he grumbles. “What’s so important you had to call in the middle of the night?”

He didn’t even see who was calling, but chances are it’s work.

“Hank,” Captain Fowler says on the other end of the line. Of course it’s work. He never gets a fucking break.

He’s had a shit day, and a shit week. There’s been a string of murder cases with all signs pointing to ‘ _serial killer’._ It’s going to be a long few weeks; he needs all the sleep he can get.

“We got a problem,” Fowler says.

“No shit,” Hank replies. He runs a hand over his face, scrubbing the sleep-crusties out of the corners of his eyes. “It’s fucking midnight.”

Hopefully Fowler excuses Hank’s language… he doesn’t want another write up. He’s been doing pretty damn good lately.

“I don’t know how to put this delicately,” Fowler says slowly. Of course he doesn’t. He’s always been a blunt man… which makes Hank concerned. He finally opens his eyes, slowly sitting up. Sumo’s at the foot of the bed; the big lug of a dog weighing down the sheets. He doesn’t stir at the ringing, or at Hank’s voice.

Distantly, Hank wishes he could sleep that deeply.

“What is it?” Hank deadpans.

“A ransom note just came in. Connor’s been kidnapped.”

The two sentences effectively shatter Hank’s world.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

“God, it fuckin’ reeks in here,” Hank grumbles.

It’s one week before the midnight phone call. Hank and Connor are currently in a small, one bedroom house in the suburbs of Detroit. A neighbor had called in for a suspicious smell, and when a patrolling officer came to answer the call, they discovered something pretty fucking nasty.

Hank and Connor stood in the kitchen of the house, eyes trailing over the floor. There was blood smears across the aging kitchen tile, leading into the garage. And in the garage was not just one body, not two, but a _set_. Two women and one male. One woman, an Alpha, had been stabbed, another woman, an Omega, was strangled, and the Alpha male… the male’s death was under mysterious circumstances. No visible wounds, so they’d have to wait for toxicology to see if something was ingested.

By the state of the bodies, they’d been here for awhile.

Connor frowns, just a few feet away from Hank’s right side. He had his arms crossed over his chest, trying to bite down nausea. He had a fairly strong stomach, but weeks-old rotting corpse smell could get to just about anybody.

“I don’t know how anybody didn’t smell anything earlier. The insulation on their garage isn’t the best,” Connor comments. Hank grunts, shrugging a shoulder.

“Detroit smells.”

Connor cracked a small smile at the joke. It fades after a second-- Connor starts putting on his ‘professional business’ face.

Hank watches the small transformation. Connor’s back goes ramrod straight, shoulders in one smooth line. All emotions fade from his face, leaving him looking and acting almost robotic.

Hank’s kind of impressed. Connor is damn good at separating himself from their gruesome work. He wishes he was that good at it… more often than not, he’s got to have a drink in hand to forget what he’s seen.

“I’m going to go find the M.E. and see if they’ve found anything,” Connor says. Hank nods.

“Go ahead, I’ll poke around the house.”

They received barebone details about the victims. The two women lived together in this house, while the third was an ex. Collective ex. They were in a polyamorous relationship for a year or two before breaking it off with the male. The breakup was recent, within the past couple of months. Signs were pointing to the jealous ex who was taking it hard-- since the two women were mated to each other and the male wasn’t.

 _Must’ve been rough,_ Hank thinks as he glances around the living room. There’s photos all over the place, all nicely framed and hung on the walls. The two women were very happy, obviously, always smiling and holding each other close. Pity settles in Hank’s stomach. It’s sad to see two lives taken too soon by a jealous ex. It happens all too often…

Hank trails through the living room, then up the stairs to the tiny bedroom. The place is kind of a mess, with clothes, books, and various other things scattered about. There’s a lot to look through, but Hank always starts with the closet. It’s the most likely place for people to store sentimental or valuable objects.

And sure enough, nestled in the back corner is an unlabeled box _._ Hank cracks it open, and it’s just what he’s looking for. A collection of their ex’s items, left behind after he moved out. There’s a lot of photos… just like the living room just one floor below. The photos feature the rotating cast of the three, all warm smiles and happy gazes.

Hank doesn’t look too deep. Doesn’t need to really. It’s easy to see that things ended roughly.

Connor knows that too, as he stands in the garage. There’s two M.E.s flitting about, taking pictures of various angles and marking evidence. There’s some blood splattered about. The knife that did the stabbing under the car parked in the garage. A half-uncoiled garden hose that looks like a good match for the strangulation bruises.

Connor’s eyes trail over the little yellow markers. They’re scattered about the small two car garage, looking almost like stars. But instead of hanging in the night sky, they’re scattered about on cracked, aging concrete.

With a quiet sigh, Connor gets to work.

 

They meet back up at Hank’s car.

Connor’s leaning up against the passenger door, waiting for Hank to appear. His arms are crossed over his chest, but the second he sees Hank, he drops them.

“Find anything interesting?” Connor asks.

Hank shrugs a shoulder, rounding the car to get to the driver’s side. Connor stands upright, turning to look at Hank.

“The two girls broke up with him. It was pretty nasty,” Hank says, digging into his coat pockets to find his keys. He finds them after a second and unlocks the car. Connor pulls his door open instantly-- he’s pretty much shivering after standing outside for a few minutes. Hank follows him, not hesitating to turn the car on and get the heat running.

“They cut him out completely, without warning I guess… so it makes sense on why he was so pissed,” Hank continues. “Must’ve been a long time coming too. They were mated but he wasn’t.”

Connor presses his lips into a flat line, looking out the window. He doesn’t say anything, not really approving of Hank’s conjecture. Hank has a tendency to start pointing fingers at culprits before all the evidence has been analyzed. Sure, he wouldn’t truly pick a suspect before all of the evidence was in…  but sometimes that kind of thinking has let them down because they’ll spend too much time focusing on the wrong person. But this time, Connor lets it slide without comment.

The clues are all leading to the male victim… even if the mysterious, unknown cause-of-death doesn’t sit well with Connor.

“We don’t know how he died though,” Connor replies. “M.E.s had no evidence towards the cause of death yet. Toxicology is going to take a few days, so we can’t really start looking into that yet.”

“We could look into the guy’s apartment,” Hank suggests. He starts to drive as he talks, throwing the car into drive and pulling away from the curb. “Look into his friends too, see if how he reacted to the break up.”

Connor nods. “Do you want to start that today?”

“Nah,” Hank shakes his head. He glances over at Connor out of the corner of his eye. Connor’s looking elsewhere, and Hank feels kind of awkward for looking. They’ve been doing this weird dance lately-- circling around each other as if they are on the same page but too scared to admit it. Or oblivious. Hank doesn’t know what page he’s on, or hell, what book he’s even supposed to be reading.

“Want to stop for sandwiches on the way back?” He offers, since it’s almost their lunch hour.

“Sure, you can pick the place,” Connor nods. His eyes flick over to Hank, and he cracks a smile. It’s small and sweet, and Hank returns it happily.

The little flutter of warmth in his chest only confuses him more.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

The results of the toxicology tests throw Hank and Connor in for a loop.

 

> _Thirium Overdose._
> 
> _Over three times the lethal limit consumed._

Hank and Connor stare at their console screens in twin shock. They had received the email at the same time, and pulled it up in sync. They even read at the same pace-- both sets of eyes scanning the test results at their own desks.

They both turn, meeting eyes.

“Thirium?” Hank raises an eyebrow. “Like the shit they give androids?”

Androids aren’t exactly common… They mostly work background jobs that no human wants to work, like factory or heavy maintenance jobs. And sure, red ice is a fairly common drug, but thirium was a bit harder to come by.

“Yes…” Connor’s eyebrows pinch in as he thinks. “I guess it makes sense… Nobody saw it at the scene because it had evaporated by then…”

Hank sighs heavily. He leans back in his desk chair, crossing his arms over his chest as the chair creaks under him suspiciously.

“But _three times_ the lethal amount? That’s enough to take out an elephant,” he says.

“I know, that’s what’s so confusing,” Connor runs a hand through his hair. “How could the victim get that much? He barely has enough money for rent, let alone money for thirium.”

The two look back at the test results. There’s nothing else special about them. It’s all that ‘blue blood’ shit they give androids.

Hank glances over at Connor. Connor’s half-hidden by his console screen, but Hank can still see enough. Connor’s nibbling at his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. It’s a fairly cute look, but Hank has to tear his eyes away before he looks like a creep.

“I can hear your gears turning,” Hank drawls. “What are you thinking about?”

Connor exhales, then turns to grab a file off of his desk. He starts thumbing through it, and appears unsatisfied by the fifth page. He sets it down, and starts digging through the other files on his desk. Hank watches, absolutely confused.

“Do you have the files for the last four homicide cases?” He asks.

“No,” Hank shakes his head. He sits up in his chair, resting his hands on his desk. “What are you thinking, Connor? Seriously.”

Connor huffs, and looks up at Hank with a determined look. “Haven’t we had a few cases of suspicious deaths? For instance, there was one where a Beta woman had bruises and markings around her body. They had a low chance of killing her, but that’s what it got ruled off as. Then a few others. Alphas and a few Omegas. I think thirium might be involved.”

Hank looks at Connor like Connor just sprouted two more heads.

“What the fuck? What are you talking about?”

“I think there’s something going on here,” Connor taps his desk a few times as he talks, for emphasis. “There was something off about those deaths, you have to admit, when we were compiling evidence.”

Hank, uneasily, nods. “I mean… Yeah… but we didn’t have anything else to go on.”

“How many of those bodies have been buried? I want to have toxicology run tests,” Connor says, already standing from his desk. He steps back, shoulders rigid.

Hank knows that once Connor’s got an idea, he’s stubborn as all hell. Hank stands sharply, his chair rattling underneath him. He reaches across their shared desks, but is just a few inches shy of reaching Connor.

“Con--”

“These cases are suspicious--” Connor says, already starting to walk off in the direction of the crime tech department.

“ _Connor,”_ Hank cuts in, exasperated. He takes a few large steps, stopping directly in front of Connor. He plants both hands on Connor’s shoulders, stopping the Omega in his tracks.

“Calm down,” Hank says. “We have to bring this shit up with Fowler before you go running off asking for grieving families to hand their loved ones back over.”

Connor, under Hank’s touch and words, visibly deflates. As gungho he was on his idea, knowing that it’s a likely cause, Hank’s right. Asking for the deceased back on a barely thought through hunch is a bad idea.

“Okay,” he says after a few long seconds. His head’s bowed, but he looks up at Hank.

Hank’s a few inches taller, with his smokey campfire scent rolling off of him gently. They’re close enough that Connor gets a good whiff of it. The warmth in it helps mellow him out.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Let’s bring this up to Fowler… because I think there’s something big going on.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, Connor,” Hank laughs a little. “I’m just being rational.”

Connor snorts quietly. “Aren’t I usually the rational one?”

“Yeah,” Hank shrugs. “I can be sometimes. Make fun of me again, and I’ll let you run in headfirst next time.”

Connor cracks a smile, looking away sheepishly. Hank smiles too, revealing that little gap between his two front teeth.

“How about we collect some more evidence before we go running to Fowler. I don’t want to look like a bunch of morons,” Hank suggests.

Connor nods, and steps back. Hank’s hands slide off his shoulders, and Hank didn’t realize he’d miss the warmth of Connor until it was gone. In the back of Hank’s mind, he remembers Connor’s fizzy lemonade scent. He misses it greatly. Connor hasn’t taken off the scent-blocker since their mission at a nightclub a few months back. Hank wishes he could smell Connor’s scent just as freely as Connor can smell his.

But oh well, they have work to do-- he can’t be fantasizing about his _Omega_ partner’s scent.

They step away from each other, go back to their respective sides of the desk, and get back to work.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

At first, Fowler doesn't buy Connor's theory about the cases. He dismisses them, much to Connor's annoyance.

So he goes over Fowler's head, and hell, even _Hank_ ' _s._ One of the deceased is still in DPD possession, so Connor asks for toxicology tests.

Hank finds out through Reed.

“What are you playin’ at?” Gavin asks in the break room a few days later.

“Excuse me?” Hank has gotten good at ignoring Gavin's jabs, but the question was more out of genuine curiosity than malice.

“You and your boytoy Omega,” Gavin continues, mashing the button on the coffee machine as he talks. The old thing sputters to life. “Asking for toxicology tests? The morgue was about to give the guy back to his family. What are you playing at? The family's gonna be pissed when they find out that we're keeping him another week.”

“What are you talking about? We didn't ask for toxicology tests on Garretson,” Hank's eyebrows pinch in in confusion.

Garretson was another suspicious death; he killed his fiance in the heat of a domestic dispute, then turned the gun on himself. The details don't quite match up, but Fowler was breathing down their neck so they ruled it murder-suicide.

Gavin snorts so hard it sounds like it hurt him. He glances up from the coffee machine, smirking up at Hank. His woodsy, mahogany-pine scent strengthens, like he’s won something. Hank feels the need to punch that smirk off his face, but he steels himself.

“You didn’t know? Shit, I guess Connor was the one to order them,” Gavin laughs. He looks back down at the machine, watching as the coffee drips down into his waiting mug. It comes out like sludge, but it’s caffeine so he’ll deal with it. “Little Omega’s got some guts… Maybe he wants to prove himself.”

Hank’s chest heaves. He forces himself not to snap-- he doesn’t need another disciplinary write-up-- but it’s so damn _hard._ Gavin’s real fucking good at pushing Hank’s buttons. He’s always been like that; since the first day at the precinct, Gavin’s been going at Hank like wolf chasing its prey. Gavin’s fueled by the want to overthrow one of the precinct’s top Alphas… incidentally, it’s Hank.

“He’s got some guts. Shocking… I though he’d just be another pencil-pusher Omega, just wanting to please their Alpha,” Gavin says with a sneer. He must sense Hank’s anger because he picks up his mug the second it’s full and sweeps out of the breakroom.

He leaves Hank no room to talk; just alone to fume.

 

Hank finds Connor down in the evidence lock up.

The Omega’s sitting at the center console, moving things around on screen and splitting his attention between that and the wall-sized screen in front of him. He’s looking at all sorts of pictures and documents, brain working a mile a minute because he’s shifting through all the information so quick Hank can barely keep up.

“Jesus,” Hank murmurs.

Connor must’ve not heard him come in; he jolts at Hank’s voice, and whirls around. His eyes are wide and he looks sheepish. So he knows that Hank knows about what he did.

“Hi… Lieutenant…” Connor greets awkwardly.

Hank nearly rolls his eyes, but he contains himself. Instead, he walks up to the console and rests two hands against the edge of it. Connor’s sitting down, so Hank’s still got some height on him.

“Toxicology tests, huh?” Hank raises an eyebrow.

Connor’s cheeks turn red, and he looks anywhere but Hank.

“I know--” He starts, then sighs heavily. “I had to go ahead with it. Fowler doesn’t believe me but there’s some kind of connection between all of this.”

He gestures to the work displayed on the screen. Hank looks at it longer than he did before, and realizes what Connor’s doing. He’s sorting through all the cases he brought up to the Captain. A half-dozen cases, all either double-homicide or murder-suicide. All had one death-under-suspicious-circumstance. There were a few other similarities, which Connor has listed in a note off to the side of the electronic workspace.

 

> _\- Suspicious Death_
> 
> _\- Possible thirium overdoses? Run toxicology_
> 
> _\- Victims were in relationship, or had history_
> 
> _\- Relationship problems_

“So… what are you thinking?” Hank asks. It’s not accusatory, it’s genuine curiosity. Connor relaxes a little, knowing that Hank’s just being Hank. He’s asking questions and gathering up information before he makes a judgement call.

“I’m thinking that there’s a serial killer. I think they’re targeting specific people,” Connor says. At the same time, he taps a few times on the console, pulling up a list of victims. He’s worked out some kind of web, tying together the victims that were involved with each other. There’s groupings of people; two or three are connected to each other.

“The victims of each case had some kind of relationship. The specifics of the relationship doesn’t matter, but how their relationship ends does,” Connor keeps talking. Hank listens intently, eyes flicking between Connor’s serious expression and the screen.

“All had relationship problems…” he starts pointing out specific couples. One had multiple charges of domestic violence. Another had a nasty divorce. A few more had noise complaints. Some love affairs… the list is lengthy.

“It’s a weird thing to focus on, and I know I sound crazy,” Connor runs a hand through his hair, finally looking away from the screen and up at Hank. “But I believe it’s more than coincidental.”

Hank slowly nods. “Okay… but how does the toxicology tests work into all of this?”

“For the suspicious deaths. After the most recent one came up with thirium overdose, I looked back and realized that almost all of these cases have had a death that was written off,” Connor explains. “These people overdosed, but the killer set up enough evidence for them to be easily written off.”

Hank presses his lips into a flat line. He hates when shit like this happens-- when cases get written off easily. So much gets glossed over for the sake of moving on and closing a case. Hank does his best to follow every lead before coming to a conclusion… but he’s not a perfect man. He knows he’s had a hand in over half of the cases Connor has pulled up.

It doesn’t sit easy in his stomach.

“You want to reopen cases we closed two months ago?” He asks after a few long seconds of silence.

“I’d…” Connor trails off. He sighs softly, then nods. “Yes.”

Hank lets out a long breath. He stands up and runs a hand over his face. When his eyes open again, Connor’s looking up at him. His brown doe-eyes are Hank’s weakness. It’s so hard to say no to him.

“Shit, okay I guess.”

Connor’s face breaks into a smile.

“Thank you Hank,” he exhales as he talks, voice light and airy. “Can you help me? I’m going to need you to get Fowler on board.”

“Let me get a chair…” Hank grumbles. Connor cheers softly, grinning like the sun is trapped behind his teeth.

 

Toxicology results come in three days later, and sure enough. Thirium overdose. Just like the last case, over three times the lethal limit. In fact, another case rose in that time. A guy killed his girlfriend after she cheated on him. His death looked staged, so chances are looking pretty good that thirium’s involved too.

Connor’s ecstatic, even if the news is grim. He’s got more evidence supporting his case. Enough that Fowler has got to pay attention, and the Captain does. With a heavy sigh and a decent amount of hesitance, he lets Connor pursue this.

Feeling victorious, the two go out to lunch together. Connor allows Hank to drive them to the Chicken Feed, despite Connor’s daily complaints that Hank should start eating healthier. But today, he allows it to happen.

The two stand at a table, both eating a greasy burger that could only be described as a heartattack in a paper wrapper. Hank’s eating happily, not caring that there’s grease all over his hands. Connor’s eating, a bit slower, trying to not be disgusted by how the burger soaked up the fat like a sponge.

Hank’s kind of amused by the sight. Watching Connor pick his way through the meal is hilarious-- the Omega’s trying his best but it’s obviously not for him. But he’s trying.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Hank snorts around a mouthful of meat and bun. Connor looks up at him sheepishly.

“I wanted to celebrate our victory… but I’ve made a mistake,” he says, putting the burger down. Hank snorts again, then swallows.

“It’s okay, Con,” he replies. “You did good today. You don’t have to impress me by eating a burger.”

“Impress…?” Connor asks slowly, eyebrows pinching in in confusion. His head even tilts-- like a confused puppy.

Hank doesn’t know how to respond, so he hides behind a large bite of the burger. Connor watches him chew, and Hank knows he’s not gonna get out of this.

“Yeah…” Hank says after swallowing. “You’re still working like you’re trying to prove your place, Connor… you don’t have to, you know that right? I’m pretty sure you’ve proven yourself capable.”

Connor’s expression darkens. He looks away from Hank, almost glaring at some point out in the distance.

 _Fuck_ , Hank cusses internally. Just when him and Connor were starting to get somewhere. Ever since his first shitty impression, Hank’s been doing the best that he can to fix that. With this mini-victory against Fowler, they were starting to get around that.

But it seems to be three steps forward, two steps back.

Hank groans internally.

“Everyday I get treated like I don’t belong on the force,” Connor admits, so quietly that Hank nearly misses it.

“You must not see it, but I do everything to make sure I’m not seen as lesser,” Connor’s still looking anywhere but here. Hank wishes he _was_ anywhere but here.

He swallows thickly, but says nothing. He knows that if he opens mouth, he’s only going to dig himself an even deeper hole.

Connor doesn’t seem to have anything else to say, because he goes back to eating his burger. Hank watches, kind of stunned. But Connor doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge Hank’s gaze.

They finish their lunch, and ultimately the work day, in a stony silence.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Then Hank gets the midnight phone call.

Connor’s been kidnapped, and held for ransom.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Connor is on his way home when he gets taken.

He had stopped by the pet store on his way home from the day’s shift. His fish at home needed some food and a new tank filter. Pico’s tank was looking empty too, so he picked up a new fake plastic rock formation for decoration. It’s got a little cavern in it; Connor knew his fish would like to swim through it and hide away.

But he’s two blocks away from his building when he gets stopped. Somebody pulls at his arm roughly, just as he passes the small alley between two buildings. He nearly drops the paper pet shop bag, stumbling over his own feet as somebody yanks him into the alleyway.

“Excuse me--” He starts, but is cut off by somebody clapping a gloved hand over his mouth. He whimpers a little bit, barely realizing the noise escaped him.

Whoever is covering his mouth uses their grip to pull Connor further into the alleyway.

This has happened to Connor before-- being cornered on his way home. Class assault at its finest. So that’s what Connor expects. He’s gearing himself up for being touched, racking through his mind on the dozens of self defense tactics they teach Omegas in school.

He’s about to wrench out of the stranger’s grasp when the familiar weight of a gun’s barrel presses against the small of his back. He freezes up.

“Not gonna fight now, huh?” The stranger’s voice is raspy. It’s loud in his ear. Connor can feel hot breath running down his neck.

He doesn’t say anything, make any noise, or even move.

The gun only presses harder.

“Better come with me,” the stranger continues. “I’m not afraid to shoot.”

Fear is coursing through Connor. He’s got such a tight grip on the bag-- the brown paper is wrinkling under his fingers. He’s… unfortunately… been assaulted before, but it wasn’t like this. Sure, he’s had guns pulled on him all the damn time, it’s a part of his job, but _this?_

He’s so locked up that the stranger pulls him back again. The brown paper bag is tugged out of his hands, then its carelessly dumped on the grimy concrete ground. The bag splits as it lands. The expensive filter rattles as it breaks. The food container rolls away. The rock decoration shatters. Connor watches it all happen, too terrified to look over his own shoulder to see who’s doing this.

He lets himself be pulled away, down the alley and into some sketchy black van.

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Hank storms into Central Station at a quarter to one in the morning.

There’s a handful of cars in the lot, so Hank must not be the only one who got the call. He stomps up the stairs to the door, gripping a travel mug tightly. He managed to brew himself a cup of coffee and dump it into a mug as he scrambled to get out the door. He sips at it as the doors slide open automatically. It’s still blazing hot, burning his tongue, but he couldn’t give a single shit.

He steps into the bullpen, and there’s five other officers and one captain all turning to look at him. He’s aware he looks like a mess. He threw on sweatpants and a hoodie, not brushing his hair and only pulling it back to keep it out of his eyes.

“What?” He growls.

All six look away.

“I know you’re upset--” Fowler starts, but he’s cut off by a nasty look from Hank.

“Just let me read the fuckin’ ransom,” he sits down at his desk roughly. Fowler sighs a little, deciding it’d be best to ignore Hank’s attitude. He comes over, turning on Hank’s console and starting to pull up the files.

Hank takes a chance to look at the other officers. Chen and Collins are here, two uniforms… and shockingly, Detective Reed’s here. Fowler must’ve put up a pretty good offer in order for Reed to roll his ass outta bed and get here in the middle of the night. All five are nursing cups of coffee, mugs all coming from the breakroom.

“Here,” Fowler says, gesturing to the screen.

Hank gets one look at it, and feels sick. Perfect, Cyberlife Sans text. But he scans it, his stomach dropping further and further at each line.

 

> _Lieutenant Anderson, you’re a haggard police officer and an aging Alpha... You must have one good cock to snag such a fine Omega… it’s a shame you let his leash out too long. He’s gone and gotten himself in trouble. That little fiesty thing is ruining my plans, so I snatched him up before he could go any further. I was going to dispose of him, but he’s got just the most beautiful face. Good ass too. Maybe I’ll keep him, or maybe I won’t. Depends on your choice._
> 
> _There’s a price to be paid, and it’s either your money, or your Omega. Your choice, but I won’t have my plans messed up. I’ve spent so much time on them!_
> 
> _Please choose quickly… I’m afraid I don’t have much control, and your little Omega is just too sweet to ignore._

At the bottom of the note, there is no signature. Just a large sum, featuring far too many zeros. The number makes Hank sick, but he note makes him feel sicker. Connor is being used as some pawn--

“Was this electronic?” Hank asks, sighing heavily.

He’s trying to not think about what shape Connor could be in right now. Or the fact that it’s DPD policy to not pay ransoms.

“No,” Fowler sighs too. “Got delivered here a few hours ago. No return address, and whoever delivered it wasn’t picked up by the security cameras.”

At the next desk over, _Connor’s desk,_ Gavin grumbles something under his breath. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the back of Hank’s console.

“It’s 20-fuckin’-39, we should have cameras that _work_ ,” Gavin snaps. For once, Hank actually finds himself on the same page as Gavin.

Fowler glares at Gavin for a second, but lets it go. He starts addressing the officers, but Hank's hardly paying attention.

All he can think about is what's happening to Connor. So much could be happening… Connor's unmated, they could be bluffing and already have claimed him. Or worse-- what if… what if they were _using_ him?

The thought makes Hank sick.

The officers start moving, grumbling to each other about whatever they've been tasked to do.

Hank didn't listen.

Fowler turns to him, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“Everyone else is going to search our leads. I want you here and looking over security footage.”

Hank sighs, pushing himself up from his desk chair. He shrugs off Fowler's hand.

“Don't trust me out in the field?”

“You look like hell, so yeah, I don't,” Fowler laughs a little, but it's dry and humorless. “Besides, the ransom's directed at you. Putting you out there alone is a bad idea.”

Hank can't really disagree. So he nods, and allows Fowler to follow him to the evidence lock up.

“What security footage are you talking about?” He asks as they descend the stairs to the basement.

“Crime techs followed Connor's phone signal. It stopped a few hours ago, so his phone must've been abandoned. We found CCTV footage of the area, and I want you to follow it,” Fowler explains.

“Can't you have an android look over this shit?” Hank sighs as he presses his palm to the scanner by the door to the lockup. It pings softly, and the glass doors slide open.

“Normally, yes, but this has got to stay quiet,” Fowler sighs heavily. He runs a hand over his jaw. “A detective getting kidnapped? The media will blow this out of the water.”

Hank slowly nods. The captain isn't wrong. It's happened again and again over the years-- the media outlets picking up on stories and sensationalizing it so hard that the actual facts get muddled. Keeping bloodthirsty journalists at bay is the last thing they need right now.

They step up to the lock up console. Hank punches in his password, _fuckingpassword,_ and sighs as the wall in front of them lights up. Hank starts pulling up files, stuff sent to him by Fowler. Fowler lingers by Hank’s side for a minute, then silently steps back once Hank’s found the files. Without a word, he leaves the lieutenant alone in the evidence lockup.

The glass door slides shut behind Fowler, and Hank presses play on the most recent video file.

There’s a handful that have been sent to him, each one a different CCTV camera. The files are huge too-- hours long. They start while the sun is still high in the sky, and go hours into the night. Hank sighs heavily, knowing he’ll be in this for the long run.

 

He scrubs through a few of the videos, not seeing Connor’s familiar face or anything out of the ordinary. The third video of a set of ten is playing at triple speed in front of him. Hank’s eyes are unfocused, staring blankly at the screen.

Lazily, he blinks and shifts in the uncomfortable chair.

There’s movement on the screen; something besides cars driving by or people walking down the sidewalk. Hank lurches forward, hitting the pause button. He missed the scene, and hastily rewinds.

This time, the video plays out at normal speed.

The CCTV camera’s quality isn’t the best, but Hank sees Connor’s form appear. He’s carrying some kind of bag, walking as normal. Then he stumbles, almost dropping the bag. Hank nearly misses it, but suddenly Connor’s disappearing between two buildings.

Hank has his palms splayed on the lockup table, on the edge of his seat. His eyes are as wide as saucers, watching the footage like looking away will kill him.

But nothing happens next.

Connor disappears, then it’s back to the normal movement.

He slaps a hand down on the touchpad, the footage pausing. At least that narrows down what he’s looking for-- there’s a timestamp in the corner of the video, and he needs to look for a specific angle. Even with this knowledge, it’s still work that’s tedious as fuck. A headache is forming behind his eyes and his back is softly aching.

He doesn’t move for a minute. Maybe longer.

He sits with his head in his hands, his exhausted mind going too fast in too many directions. But no matter what direction he goes, it always comes back to Connor. Connor was fucking _kidnapped._ And whoever took him wanted to hurt Hank _specifically._

It’s his fucking fault Connor’s gone.

Hank heaves out a breath. The sound echoes around him, bouncing off the stainless steel and smooth glass of the lockup. Another almost gasping breath rips from his lungs. Then another, another, another, each one faster than the last.

He’s hyperventilating.

Deep down, the rational part of his brain is reciting all the breathing techniques he learned in his department-mandated therapy. But anxiety-brain takes the reigns and Hank’s half bent over, gasping into his hands.

All the while, the paused security footage sits on screen, looming over Hank as if it was mocking him.

 


	2. Act Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this was a fun chapter to write. Please read the warnings over again though!!! This chapter has a lot of blood/injury in it.

Connor’s been blindfolded for god knows how long. 

He was shoved into the back of some van, then roughly searched. They took his wallet, phone, and keys. The phone got thrown somewhere-- Connor had heard it land with a clatter in the distance-- and somebody tied a band of fabric tight around his eyes. As somebody blindfolded him, another set of hands grabbed his wrists and yanked them back. A cry had slipped out, involuntarily, when they had been tied together. Connor couldn’t see, but it was probably duct tape because whatever was around his wrists clung to his skin and hurt like a bitch. 

Then of course, whoever took him started driving off. 

Connor, blind as all hell, was left to try and stay upright in the back of the truck as the people drove harshly. They took all kinds of turns, throwing Connor around the back and sending his mind spinning. 

There was no way he knew where they were. 

Then at some point, they stopped. The doors to the van were thrown open with a loud creak, and he was roughly pulled out. He stumbled over his own two feet, not given any time to stand up properly before he was being led somewhere. 

They walked for a while, then the hand on his shoulder forced him to stop. Connor barely gets to breathe before that same hand pushes him to the ground. His knees collide with hard concrete, and the force of the shove nearly knocks Connor over. Somehow, with wrists bound, he manages to stay sitting. 

Footsteps retreat. A door slams. 

Then, nothing but the sound of Connor’s own breathing. 

“Hello?” He hesitatingly calls out. He’s met with silence. 

He shifts, falling back onto his ass. His legs are folded uncomfortably, his shoulders ache, and his wrists are still wrapped in tape. And of course, he’s still blindfolded. He shifts again, testing the hold on his wrists. They must be wrapped up tight because they don’t budge at all. 

He closes his eyes, even if he couldn’t see anything. His head bows forward. 

Connor doesn’t know where he is, how he got here, or what’s going on. He’s so confused and turned around. With the blindfold on, he feels like the world is spinning around him. He clenches his eyes shut under the thick fabric, swallowing thickly. 

The spinning is getting worse; nausea is rising in his throat. 

With a thick swallow and a raspy cough, Connor does his best to get comfortable. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be here, which terrifies him to no end. After years of police work though, he knows that his captors are leaving him here to stew. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book, but it works like a fucking dream. 

Connor’s stomach is in knots. Nausea rises in his throat. He forces himself to take deep breaths. He has to stay calm-- but it’s so damn hard. 

 

Connor was half awake when a door slammed open. The clatter startled him awake. Judging by how loud it was, it was probably pretty close. He hoped it wasn’t the door to whatever room he’s being kept in... 

He swallows nervously. He had no way of telling how long he’d been here. He’s still blindfolded, curled in on himself as best as he could with his wrists restrained. At the sound of footsteps coming towards him, he perks up a little. The second he did though, the footsteps halted. 

“Well, well, well…” A deep voice drawled. It was on the raspy side, like they chain-smoked cigarettes. Connor’s stomach rolled over uneasily. 

“Heard I caught a good one… Let me see you,” the person continued. Two steps forward, and then somebody tugged at the knot holding the blindfold over Connor’s eyes. The fabric fell away, and Connor had to clench his eyes. 

The room was bright-- large industrial sized fluorescent lights hanging above. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he looked around. He was in the middle of a small room, sitting on a concrete floor that looked barely touched. The walls were corrugated metal sheathing. He was in a warehouse, most likely. There was no windows to tell where he was specifically though… and Detroit was covered in industrial warehouses. 

There was no windows, so the only way out was through one door, but it was closed. Presumably locked too. 

Then his eyes landed on the person in front of him. 

“What a pretty fuckin’ Omega,” the man simpered. He reeked of Alpha-- all strong pheromones and energy. He smelled awful too, like weed mixed with leather. It made Connor nearly gag, but he held it back as he looked up at the stranger standing above him. 

The man certainly fit the bill for Alpha. Dark skin, pockmarked with scars of various sizes. He had long hair, curled into dreads that fell over his broad shoulders and wide chest. He was built like a wall, tall as all hell and just as wide. 

Connor bit back a whimper. 

“Why hide your scent?” The man asked. He squatted, raising a hand. A few fingers danced across the scent-blocker patch on the side of his neck. He jolted away, uncomfortable with the stranger’s ice cold hands touching such an intimate place. 

The man’s expression sours for a second, and without warning he digs a nail under the edge of the patch and rips it off like a bandaid. Connor yelps. It doesn’t normally hurt to change the patch-- but he rips it off like hot wax. 

“Such a pretty little thing like you should be showing off,” the man murmurs. He looks down at the patch with disgust, and tosses it off into some corner of the room. 

The scent-blocker doesn’t wear off immediately; it should take a few hours for his scent to come back. But the stranger’s already acting like he can get a whiff. He leans in, brushing his nose against the side of Connor’s neck. 

Connor tries pulling away again, but the man plants a hand on Connor’s shoulder, locking him in place. 

“Please--” Connor whimpers. 

The man chuckles. His lips part and he brushes the tips of his teeth against Connor’s sensitive skin. The Omega jolts, full body, kicking his legs out on impulse. In return, the Alpha growls and his hand shifts to press against Connor’s chest.

Connor can feel the cold hand through the fabric of his sweater. 

The hand pushes him back, forcing him against the concrete. He whimpers again, staring up at the stranger with glossy eyes the size of saucers.

“Relax, sweetheart,” the man smirks. “Not going to do anything to you yet… We’re still waiting to hear back from your dear Alpha.”

Connor’s brain scatters. He knows they’re talking about Hank--

_ oh god Hank-- _

“Please!” He cries out. “Don’t hurt him--”

“Oh darling,” the stranger’s voice dips low, full of arousal. Connor’s skin crawls, and he tries to get out from under the man’s touch. His attempts are fruitless. 

“We’re not going to hurt him,” the man shakes his head. “Or at least, not physically. He’ll get real worked up if we hurt you though.”

Connor doesn’t realize it, but he’s starting to shake. His body is vibrating, all nervous energy and fear coursing through him violently. 

The man laughs, something deep and disgusting, and stands. 

“I’ll be back my little Omega,” he grins. “I want to see what a little treat like you smells like.”

He leaves Connor, walking back over to the door. Connor doesn’t watch, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. The fluorescent lights burn, far too bright, but he does it anyway. In the distance, the door slams, and Connor’s left alone. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Against his will, Hank goes home mid afternoon. 

He was at the station for well over twelve hours, and Fowler forced him to go home and rest.  _ Can’t work if you’re falling asleep on your feet,  _ was the captain’s argument. It was a pretty solid one, but Hank was still hesitant to go home. It felt wrong to rest if Connor was out there somewhere, held captive. 

But he went home anyway. 

He managed to let Sumo out into the backyard without keeling over from exhaustion. Sumo, fortunately, didn’t take long outside. The second that big oaf was back in the kitchen, Hank shut the door and stumbled into bed. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

The last twelve-plus hours of work didn’t reveal much, unfortunately. 

Reed and Chen went to the location the surveillance footage had been pulled from. The things Connor dropped where still there, along with a shattered cell phone. It was obviously Connor’s. 

While they were doing that, Hank had scanned through the footage. There were no good angles of the center of the alleyway, but two cameras were able to pick up each end. Connor had been dragged into one, and came out the other end with a blindfold on. He’d been pushed into a black van, then they drove off. It didn’t have plates, because of  _ course  _ it didn’t, that would make things too easy. So Hank pulled up CCTV cameras, tracking the black van as best he could. He lost it a dozen or so blocks later, when it pulled onto the highway and disappeared into the rush hour traffic. 

So they had few leads. Too few. 

But Hank went home anyway, hoping that something came up while he slept. 

 

Nothing new happened.

When he woke up, his room was dark. 

Sumo laid across the foot of the bed, making a nest out of the messy sheets. Hank slowly sat up, stretching his arms above his head until he heard a pop. Then he rolled his shoulders in a few slow circles. 

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The sun had gone down hours ago; the only light that filtered in through the thin curtains was from the streetlight outside. He reached for the nightstand, flicking on the lamp and then grabbing his phone. Sumo stirred, rolling over. One big eye cracked open, staring at Hank for a few seconds before sliding shut again. The dog let out a heavy sigh, settling in once more.

Hank ignored his big oaf of a dog, instead unlocking his phone. He’s greeted by no new messages. No developments on Connor’s case. 

His stomach clenches, and Hank swallows down the need to scream. 

Instead, he took a few deep breaths, and got out of bed. Sumo yawned and stretched, knowing it was well past his dinner time. 

Hank wandered into the kitchen to pour out some dog food. Then, as Sumo ate, he took a shower. It was a long one. The water started to run cold when he stepped out, but the mirror was still fogged up. 

He wiped the condensation away with his palm, meeting his own gaze through the mirror. He was definitely tired-- the bags under his eyes were deep and dark. With a heavy sigh, he started to get ready as if it was morning instead of nearing nine at night. 

He brushed his hair and teeth, glancing at the colorful array of post-its stuck to the wall around the mirror. Some were nearing a year old; their positive message no longer having an affect. But he kept them up anyway. 

He stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, and wandered into the bedroom to pick his phone up. 

There was one missed message, from Fowler. 

As he pushed open the closet, he dialed the captain’s number. 

“Hey Hank,” Fowler greeted. The exhaustion was audible. 

“Hey,” Hank replied, thumbing through the obnoxiously patterned shirts without really thinking about it. “I was in the shower when you called. Is there any updates?”

“Yeah… You’re not gonna like it though.”

_ Have I liked anything about this?  _ Hank snarks in his head, but he keeps his damn mouth shut. He doesn’t need to bite the hand that’s feeding him. 

“Another note came in. There’s some pictures in too… and it’s pretty damn nasty,” Fowler sighs heavily. “Come in when you can. We might have a lead, since somebody saw the guy who dropped it off. He probably got picked up by cameras too.”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face, trying to keep from getting pissed off. Some nasty, pure  _ Alpha  _ possession is rising in his throat. Pictures… and another note. He’s done enough of these kidnapping cases to know that those pictures are some kind of taunt. 

He’s not looking forward to seeing what they are.

He has to force himself not to think about just how bad Connor could look. 

“Okay, I’ll be there in thirty,” Hank says after just a little too long of a pause. But Fowler doesn’t comment. Bless him. 

“Alright,” Fowler trails off, like he’s thinking about saying something else. 

Hank doesn’t say anything. He stops thumbing through his closet and finally grabs a shirt. It’s a more tame pattern, just some simple navy blue and white vertical stripes. After a few seconds, Fowler keeps talking. 

“I’m warning you Hank. About those photos, I mean.”

Hank grunts, loud enough for the captain to know he’s still listening. 

“I know you’re pretty hung up on Stern, so just brace yourself, okay?” Fowler’s voice gets quiet and gentle. It’s a tone Hank hasn’t heard in a long fucking time. Not since-... not since Cole. 

The tone makes him want to throw up or punch something or scream, but he doesn’t snap. He just sits on the edge of his unmade bed, fingers curling tight around his phone. 

“Okay,” he finally says. He looks down at the shirt sprawled across his lap. The fabric is wrinkled, because he couldn’t give any shits about laundry. It’s faded too. Hank knows he’s had this for years, but it still fits and doesn’t have any holes, so he still wears it. 

“We’ll get him soon. I know it.” Fowler spouts off a few more false-positives, and lets Hank go. Hank huffs out a goodbye. When he hears the dial tone, he lowers his phone. 

It takes far too much strength to stand up and start getting ready. 

History feels like it’s repeating itself… like he’s losing someone he cares about all over again. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

His face throbs. His  _ everything  _ throbs. 

Even his scent. The fizziness has gone flat, like soda left open for far too long. The peach and lemon have rotted too. It fills the room he’s in, making everything smell like sour rot. It makes the other guy in the room gag occasionally, but Connor couldn’t care less. 

Why should he? 

Why should he, when his face has been hit so many times his eye has swollen shut and blood dries on his cheeks? He ran out of tears hours ago, and voice ran dry. 

Connor keeps his head bowed, not wanting to look the other man in the room. This faceless stranger was the one who hurt him. He hid behind an oversized hoodie, letting the shadows off a drawn hood cover his face. 

The man with dreads, the Alpha from before, wasn’t there for Connor’s… beating.

Both men sicken Connor though. 

Connor is well aware that there are terrible, terrible people in this world. His work is putting those people behind bars and giving justice to their victims. 

But now he's the victim. 

He's been attacked before. Many times. But never to this degree. 

He exhales heavily through his mouth. His nose is clogged with snot and blood. The gross mixture drips down onto his lap, blending in with more blood that’s seeped out from other injuries. 

Connor's zoning in and out, trying to stay awake even though every fiber of his being just wants to sleep. 

He can't sleep. Who knows what they'll do to him. 

So he doesn't hear the footsteps walk away, or the door open then close. He doesn't even look up. He's too weak to; the only thing keeping him upright is the restrains on his wrists and legs. He's been duct-taped into this rickety wooden chair. It's a miracle the old thing didn't break under the force of the blows. 

Connor barely survived them. 

The door opens sometime later.

Connor's eyes have slipped shut. He just wants to sleep.

“Good morning, princess,” somebody drawls. Connor barely stirs. The smell of old leather hits him, and he whines softly. That worn scent of the Alpha clogs the space in his nose that isn’t already filled with congealed blood or dried snot. It makes it impossible to breath. 

The man with the dreads laughs when Connor wheezes softly. He steps up to Connor, and tucks a few cold fingers under the Omega’s chin. He tilts Connor’s head up, forcing his eyes to open. 

“Did my little Omega not sleep well?” The man asks. He’s being condescending, looking down at Connor like he’s a child. 

But it’s not like Connor is coherent enough to snap back. He nods listlessly, eyes barely managing to stay open. One of his eyes is bruised and swollen,  

“Let’s get you somewhere comfortable,” the man says. He glances over his shoulder, barking an order at somebody else. Connor sees a figure appear in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t focus on them, just gazes up at the Alpha in front of him. He feels the bindings on his wrists and ankles get cut away. The tape bindings rip uncomfortably at his skin. It pulls at the delicate hairs of his arms. It’s not the worse thing he’s felt, but it still draws a whine out of his throat. 

He starts to droop forward, almost sliding off of the rickety chair, but the man catches him. He pulls Connor up off the chair, and directly into his chest. Normally, Connor would bite and snap, refusing to be coddled by an Alpha. But vulnerability takes over. In his weakened state, his normally iron grip on his Omegan hormones loosens. They start to take over. He melts into the Alpha’s chest, tucking his face into the man’s shoulder. The rush of hormones lulls him into some kind of false state of security. It’s a toxic state to be in, but he has no choice. He’s too weak to fight against it. 

The man laughs, something deep that rumbles through his chest. 

“My good little Omega…” The man hums. “Let your Alpha take care of you.”

Connor whimpers, just barely audible. He’s aware that he’s smearing blood on the man’s shirt, but finds himself not caring. 

The man leads him out of the room. Connor’s eyes shut, and he doesn’t know where he’s being led. 

The Alpha holding him is laughing about something, joking with somebody else. 

_ Such a good Omega, isn’t he? _

There’s another laugh.

_ Get a fuckin’ picture of this. Want to rub it in his face. _

Another voice-- 

_ Just keep him. Got a little ass on him that’ll feel so good. Bet it’s tight.  _

Connor is lowered onto a soft surface. His eyes slowly open. This room is darker than the last. There’s no overhead light on. Just a lamp in the corner. He lets himself be pushed back against the soft surface. His head hits a pillow. The warm body starts to pull back, and he reaches out. He doesn’t know what part he grabs, but he clings and keeps the Alpha close. 

“Want me to stay with you princess?” The man asks. 

Connor whines, nodding sharply. 

Both voices laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll be with you in just a moment, okay baby? I have to do something real quick,” the man murmurs. Connor feels a fingers brush over his forehead, moving pieces of hair out of the way. His fingers loosen their grip, and the Alpha slips away. To replace the warmth, a blanket is pulled up over Connor’s body. Connor buries himself under it. He’s already drifting off--

the sound of a camera shutter makes him open his eyes. 

At the same second, the lamp in the room is clicked off. Everything’s suddenly dark. A whine leaves his lips, but he’s shushed. The Alpha is back, slipping under the blanket. 

“It’s okay, princess,” the man murmurs. He gently pulls Connor in, tucking the Omega back into his chest. 

By now, the cracked leather scent of the Alpha has calmed down. Connor is no longer sickened by it. It does the opposite, actually. That cloying scent of leather polish has faded, the chemical scent no longer filling Connor’s lungs. He takes a few deep breaths as he cuddles into the man’s warmth. 

His face still hurts from the beating… but it’s okay. 

He starts to drift off into sleep, lulled into a weird state of security. His rational mind has been pushed to the back; its cries of pain and discomfort drowned out by hormones telling him that this Alpha will take care of him. 

That’s not true.

But he’ll listen to that voice in his mind. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

“Guess who’s fuckin’ trailing a lead?!  _ This guy! _ ” Reed’s voice crackles through the phone. He’s on speaker with Fowler and Hank, calling the two to update him on what’s happening. 

Hank blinks a few times, trying to comprehend what he just heard. 

He  _ literally  _ just walked into the precinct. He didn’t even make it to his desk before Fowler poked his head out and gestured for him to come in. Then he barely got time to sit down before Reed’s voice filtered in through the phone on Fowler’s desk. 

“I was just coming into the station when Tina told me that a package just got dropped off. I fuckin’ raced out there, and I’m after him,” Reed explains. He’s giddy as shit, voice loud and proud. But he’s not being cocky like he usually is. He’s earned this. “I’ve been after him for like thirty minutes.”

“Where are you?” Fowler asks. He’s relieved, the tension leaving his shoulders. 

“Uptown,” Reed replies. “Near the industrial part of town.”

Fowler glances at Hank. Hank’s a mess, but the news of having a solid lead takes a huge weight off his shoulders. He’s sunk into the little armchair, running a hand through his half-dried hair. 

Fowler keeps talking to Reed, pulling out information like car description, license plates, location… 

Hank’s zoned out though. He’s just fucking relieved that they have a lead on Connor. The second the guy Reed’s tracking stops moving, they’ll go after him. If they’re lucky, he went right to where Connor is. 

Hank hopes they’re lucky. 

 

Reed sends an update another thirty minutes later. They’ve stopped moving, and are about an hour out from the station. They’re way out of town, but fuck, it’ll be worth it. 

Fowler orders for officers to start getting into gear. Hank pushes himself up from the chair, but Fowler stops him. 

“I want you to see the note,” the captain says. Hank freezes, half-stood up. He stays like that for a few long seconds, then sits back down. He had forgotten about the note and the photos. It was all he thought about during the drive to the station, but fuck, it’d left his mind the second he heard Reed’s voice through the phone. 

He swallows thickly, and nods. 

Fowler nods, and pulls it up. The letter appears on the full-wall screen that Fowler has. Hank scans it. It’s still in that damn Cyberlife Sans font. 

> _ You’ve got such a good Omega, Lieutenant Anderson. Why haven’t you taken him for yourself yet? I would’ve the second I met this pretty little thing.  _
> 
> _ He’s so good for me. Took everything I gave him so beautifully. Shoulda given him my cock, but not yet. Soon though, if you don’t pay up. Remember our terms. Or I’ll sit this little treat on my knot and pump him full.  _

The vulgarness of it makes Hank want to throw up. That awful mix of possession and anger rises in his chest again. He hasn’t mated Connor yet, but the Omega’s fucking  _ his.  _

Hank grits his teeth; so hard they creak.

“What’s the fuckin’ photo?” Hank hisses. 

Fowler pulls a face. The look disappears just as fast as it appeared though. He taps on his console a few times, then two photos appear on the screen, one on either side of the note. 

Hank’s hands curl so tight around the arms of the chair. The chair creaks, threatening to break. 

One photo is of Connor’s bloodied face. He’s recognizable, but just barely. Blood runs in rivers down his skin. Down his cheeks from a cut on his forehead. Over his chin from a split lip. An eye is so bruised and swollen, the brown of Connor’s eye is barely visible. His nose is a mess. It doesn’t look broken, but it’s dripping blood and snot.

The second is that same bloodied face, but it’s half-hidden by an unknown body. Connor’s tucked into some man’s chest, face in the crook of their shoulder…  _ scenting.  _ It’s intimate and disgusting and sickening and sweet, especially with the bottom of the man’s face in the frame. It cuts the stranger’s face in half, but his wicked, cocky grin is still visible. 

The man’s fucking proud of his capture. 

Hank sees  **_red._ **

The chair cracks under his palms. 

 

The drive uptown is miserable. 

Hank’s fuming. His anger boils under his skin; it’s just below the surface. One wrong word,  _ hell,  _ one wrong  _ breath _ , and he’s going to snap. 

At least he’s not driving. Some uniform is driving. In any other situation, Hank would feel bad, since he’s barely talked to this officer. But fuck formalities and manners--

They slow to a stop a block away from the location Reed gave them. 

The address is for a warehouse in the middle of the industrial area. The neighborhood’s gone downhill over the years. With the shift from manual labor to automated, majority of the warehouses are abandoned. 

The street their target is on is completely empty… except for the one they’re here for. 

Hank storms out of the car the second it’s stopped. He storms up to Reed, who’s talking to Chen. She brought up some gear for him, and he’s in the middle of putting it in when Hank cuts in. 

“If you’re going to be smug about this, go the fuck home,” Hank hisses out. “This isn’t some fuckin’ fodder for a promotion.”

Both Reed and Chen turn, eyes wide in surprise. 

Chen’s a Beta; her scent barely changes. But Reed’s pure Alpha scent, a heavy mix of mahogany and pine, sours. It smells too chemical all of the sudden, like wood stain. 

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” Reed bites back. “I’m the one who got us here! If it wasn’t for me you’d be crying your ass off about your damn Omega.”

Reed steps up to Hank, face to face. Hank doesn’t back down-- he’s got some height on Reed. They glare at each other for a few seconds before Chen cuts in. She yanks Reed back by his arm. 

“You two need to calm down. This isn’t some Alpha pissing contest,” she scolds. “We’re here for  _ Connor,  _ not your damn pride.”

Reed backs down, listening to his friend and forcing out a breath. He gives Hank one last glare and walks away, just wanting to get into gear in peace. Chen glances between the two Alphas, and sighs quietly. 

“Take a breath. Storming in there pissed off is going to do more harm than good,” she says softly. 

Hank wants to listen, he really does, but those damn possessive hormones keep him from thinking logically. He doesn’t say anything, and Chen gives him one last disdainful look before she trails after Reed. 

In the distance, Fowler’s voice rings out. 

_ Positions!  _

It’s showtime. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Connor wakes up to a cold bed. 

With a few hours of sleep, he's more coherent. But it's still not enough; he cries out, 

“Alpha?” 

He's met with silence. The room is still dark. He tries to sit up, but something clanks and pulls at his arm. He pulls and pulls and pulls. But it's fruitless. His eyes adjust to the darkness. There's a cuff on his wrist, locking him to the headboard. A quiet whimper leaves his lips. His heart is betrayed-- no Alpha would lock him up like this. 

“Alpha…” he calls out again. There’s tears in his eyes. He bites his bottom lip. Weakly, he pulls at the handcuff. It scrapes against the metal bedpost. The sound is grating, Connor nearly sobs. 

The door opens roughly; it slams against the wall. Connor jolts, whimpering. 

The man,  _ Alpha _ , stands silhouetted by the light from the hall. 

“Alpha,” Connor exhales, relieved.

But the Alpha is not what he wants. He storms up to Connor, snatching up his wrist. The roughness rattles Connor. His mind scatters in a million directions; Omegan hormones and logic all getting muddled up. 

He lets out a weak noise, not feeling the Alpha unlock the cuff and pull him away. His grip is harsh, other hand clutching at Connor’s neck. 

“Ah--!” Connor hisses. 

The hands pull him up. He’s forced up onto his knees, or risk being choked. 

“Can’t believe he let himself get trailed,” the Alpha growled. “I fucking--” he pauses to growl. His grip on Connor tightens, pulling another noise from the Omega. 

“We’re leaving. I’m not giving you up.”

Pure possession fills the words. It tugs at Connor’s heart, and he’s ripped from some kind of Omegan mentality. The logical part of his brain takes back control, and he finds himself fighting against the man’s hold. He’s no Alpha-- 

“No!” Connor cries out. His knees are shaking, arms quivering. But he still tries to yank himself out of the man’s grip. 

“ _ No?  _ Where did you get this attitude?” The man growls. His hand on Connor’s neck tightens. Connor gasps. His hands fly up to the man’s wrist. He digs his nails in, hoping that he’ll let go. But he doesn’t. 

With his grip, he pulls Connor up higher, dragging him across the mattress. He wrenches Connor forward. The second Connor’s knees slide off the bed, he lets go. 

Connor goes flying towards the concrete floor. He gasps, eyes widening. 

There’s a crack. A thud. A scream. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

A warped scream echoes through the hallways of the warehouse. Everyone freezes. The almost-dozen officers all still, sharing looks. 

Somebody gestures silently, and the group splits. Hank finds himself walking down a hall with just Gavin. There are better choices of partners, but it’ll suffice. The pained cry was bent from all the metal, echoing through open spaces and off the metal walls. It’s damn near impossible to track. Hank does the best he can, peeking into each room or alcove they pass. Gavin’s right at his side, not saying a word. 

They round a corner. Soft sobs filter in. 

Gavin and Hank share a heavy look. 

_ “See what happens to Omegas who don’t listen?” _

Someone’s voice follows the sobs. Hank’s hand tightens around the grip of his gun. 

At the same time, the two see a door cracked open, just down the hall. The two officers press their backs up against the wall-- slowly creeping forward. The sobs are growing louder the closer they get.

_ “Please… Please I’m sorry…” _

That voice--

_ Oh my god-- _

Gavin plants a hand on Hank’s arm. Hank whirls around, teeth bared. Gavin’s eyes are as cold as ice. The fire in Hank’s chest dampens. 

_ Don’t,  _ Gavin mouths. 

Hank exhales silently. 

_ “Get up. We’re leaving.” _

Hank turns around pointedly, and stalks towards the half-open door. Gavin nearly growls, but he manages to bite down the noise and follow after his superior. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

His arm throbs. He weeps, sprawled out on the dirty concrete floor. 

“Get up! We don’t have fucking time!” The man demands. He stomps over, grabbing at whatever part of Connor he can reach. Connor tries to roll over-- fight back-- but the sharp stab of pain keeps him from moving. 

The man pulls Connor up. Connor’s knees nearly give--

“Detroit Police! Put your hands up!” Two voices bark out in sync. Connor sobs, some mix of relief and distress. The man drops Connor out of surprise, sending the Omega falling back to the floor. He lands on his arm, a scream ripping from his throat. 

“Jesus  _ Fucking--”  _ The man growls, whirling around to see who the hell is interrupting him. And there, in all their glory, stand Lieutenant Anderson and Detective Reed, with two guns pointed directly at the man. 

Reed takes three sweeping steps forward, grabbing the man by his shoulder and forcing him down onto his knees. He starts rattling off his rights, letting Hank find his Omega. 

And he does, rushing over to the crumpled body. 

“Connor!” Hank cries. He falls to his knees too, not caring that they crack against the concrete. He draws the Omega’s upper body into his lap, taking in the sight of the dried blood. “Connor…”

“Hank?” Connor rasps out. His brown doe-eyes gaze up at Hank, looking at the Alpha like he planted the stars in the sky. They slip shut a second later, a dazed, relieved smile crossing Connor’s lips. 

“Connor, oh god--” Hank’s chest heaves. “Stay with me, Con.”

Connor laughs deliriously. “‘m right here…”

Hank scrambles to find his walkie-talkie. Connor needs help,  _ now.  _ His face is a kaleidoscope of blood and bruises. His left forearm shouldn’t be looking like that. 

He manages to find it tucked into a pocket, and he calls for backup and help. Reed seems to be handling himself just fine, he’s wrangled the culprit into cuffs, but they need all hands on deck. 

“Stay with me baby…” the affectionate term slips from Hank’s lips without him even realizing. “Help’s gonna be here any minute.”

He’s panicking-- chest heaving and hands shaking-- but he calms himself just enough to brush a few stray locks of Connor’s hair out of his eyes. Connor’s eyes open. 

“But… you’re here?” He murmurs. His non-injured hand reaches up tentatively. His fingertips brushes against Hank’s jaw, but falls away after a second. Hank reaches it halfway, taking Connor’s wrist gently. 

Connor watches with wide eyes, barely comprehending what’s happening. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Hank murmurs. He draws Connor’s hand in close, brushing his lips against the back of it.

“Alpha?” The word comes out too easy for Connor. 

Hank’s heart swells, god, it’s been so long-- 

but it’s not about him. It’s about Connor. 

Hank kisses Connor’s hand. He kisses the back, then the palm. His fingers. The tips. His wrist. Every inch.

They get interrupted. A paramedic cuts in. Connor wants Hank, his true  _ Alpha.  _ Hank just wants to hold him close. But Hank lets him go, with comforting sweet nothings and lingering touches. 

Connor cries when he’s taken to the hospital. 

 

///|||\\\\\

 

Hank isn’t able to visit Connor in the hospital. Connor’s only there for a night, just for observation, but Hank feels guilty anyway. He got caught up in the whirlwind of the case. The man they arrested turns out to be the culprit of half a dozen other cases; all the ones involving thirium. 

The man had a lot to confess; Hank spent hours sitting in the observation room and watching all of it go down. 

The man, Darius Bell, had this whole plan. He’d prey on couples who where having problems, killing them and posing it like a murder-suicide. He’d kill the last one with a thirium overdose, then stage the whole scene. He’d leave just enough details for it to be written off, and get away with it. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason why he picked on fighting couples. Maybe it was just jealousy. Who’s to say? It definitely wasn’t Hank, who was too exhausted to give a shit on motive. 

But Bell ultimately got caught by deciding to take the detective leading the investigation against him. He’d found out about Connor’s theory, and decided to put a stop to things before it was too late. 

That plan had failed, and now here they were. Bell’s cuffed to the table, staring at the wall in front of him. He’s been left alone for the past thirty minutes, but he doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he’s calm. There’s dried blood on him,  _ Connor’s  _ blood, and he smells like sewage, but he’s nonplussed. 

Hank leaves then. He’s falling asleep on his feet, but he knows that his day is not over. He has to get to Connor. 

 

He calls Connor’s cellphone, but that’s not who picks up. 

“This is Niles Stern, Connor’s busy right now--”

“Yeah Niles, it’s Hank,” Hank cuts the twin off. Niles would normally get pissy, but he says nothing for a few long seconds. 

“Hank? Oh god you need to get over here,” Niles sighs heavily. 

Hank’s sitting in his car, in the middle of the precinct parking lot. The sun is rising slowly, peeking through the buildings of downtown Detroit. It’s been a few busy days-- Hank doesn’t know how he’s going to get his sleep schedule back. He’s only fucking it up further with this phone call, but Connor’s worth more than sleep. 

Far more. 

“Where? Are you at the hospital?” Hank shoves his key in the ignition. 

“No, we’re at Connor’s apartment. He got released a few hours ago,” Niles explains. “He’s delirious off pain medications… but when he’s more lucid, he’s asking for you. Has been for hours.”

Hank exhales sharply. He bends forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. “Fuck…”

“Yeah,” Niles sighs. “Come talk to him okay? Well… He can’t coherently talk right now… but  _ please,  _ for the love of god come over here.”

Hank sits upright, lips parted, but Niles keeps talking. 

“I’m so tired of you two pining after each other. You both love each other dearly. I can’t believe this had to happen in order for you to both get your heads out of your asses.”

“Excuse me?” Hank bites out. He doesn’t take to kindly to being talked to like a damn  _ child--  _

“Oh my god,” Niles groans. “ _ Get the fuck over here.  _ Don’t make me tell you again, Anderson. Come cuddle my damn brother and talk about your feelings or whatever when he’s lucid.”

With that, Niles hangs up. 

Hank listens to the dial tone for a few seconds. Then he lowers his hand, staring down at the dark phone screen in shock. He blinks a few times, then looks up at the wheel. The engine’s running, and shit-- he’s got places to be. He throws his phone in the direction of the passenger seat. It probably bounced off and wedged itself somewhere awkward, but he couldn’t give a single fuck. 

He throws the old car in reverse, and peels out of his parking spot. His Omega is waiting for him. 

 

He hasn’t even knocked yet, and the door to Connor’s apartment is already swinging open. Niles stands on the other side, dressed so casually that for a second, Hank wonders if he got the right apartment. He’s just in sweats and a t-shirt, nothing special, but the Stern twins always dress at least business-casual. 

Hank’s lips part, ready to speak, when Niles grabs Hank by the lapel and pulls him into the apartment. 

“It reeks like he’s in heat,” Niles sighs. “The sugar is making me sick. Take care of him for a few hours, and I’ll be back once the stink has cleared up.”

Just like the phone conversation, Niles doesn’t leave Hank any room to talk. He finishes talking, and then he rushes out of the apartment, barely stopping to shove on shoes. The door slams shut behind him, and Hank’s left with the fullforce smell of carbonated peach lemonade. It  _ does  _ reek-- full of Omegan neediness and vulnerability. 

Hank wants to swoon. He wants to let instincts take over and lap up the scent straight from the source. But he’s got to remain level headed. 

He toes off his shoes, and pads with socked feet over to the windows. He cracks them open a few inches, just enough for some air to start flowing but not enough to be cold. Then it’s time to face the music. He can see Connor’s bedroom door from his spot in the living room. He takes a deep breath, and heads over. 

His mind instantly goes to bad places. First, he imagines what any Alpha would, given a scent this strong, and thinks about finding Connor spread open-... he pushes that thought out quickly. Second, he still pictures Connor just as battered as he was when they found him last night. He’s still got blood on his face… 

Third, he pushes all thoughts from his mind, and lets himself be ready for whatever scene awaits him.

And it’s tame… to the point of being cute. 

He’s been in the foyer of Connor’s apartment before, but never all the way in like this. He didn’t know how Connor chose to decorate. But now he does. 

The Omega is nestled in a mountain of pillows and blankets. He’s barely visible under all the plush comfort. Hank cracks a smile, stepping into the room. 

“Connor?” He calls gently. 

As he waits for a response, he scans the room. There’s a few more windows in here, so he pads over to them and cracks them open. Connor’s delayed response is almost hidden by the creaking of the window pane sliding open. 

“Hank…?” Connor murmurs from beneath his bundle of blankets. He stirs under all of it, eyes popping out and looking in the direction of Hank’s voice. They’re glossy, and it’s obvious he’s barely conscious. 

“Hey Con,” Hank exhales, relieved that he’s awake. He steps up to the bed, and tries to find a place to sit that won’t mess up Connor’s nest. There’s really no place, so he just sits down on the edge and hopes he doesn’t fuck it up too badly. 

Connor pushes down one of the blankets weakly, and smiles up at Hank. 

“Hank,” he repeats, cracking a smile. He’s so out of it-- it’s  _ adorable.  _ No man should be this damn cute, but here Connor is. He’s smiling like a fool, hair unbrushed and falling in curls over his forehead. He’s not wearing glasses or contacts, so he has to squint just a bit. Freckles dot his face, no longer covered by his own blood. One of his eyes is still pretty fucked up, and his bottom lip is split, but it’s better than it was before. 

“How are you feeling?” Hank asks. 

Connor hums softly, and shrugs a shoulder. 

“I’m okay… Niles gave me some meds a while ago… I’m feeling okay,” he says. 

Hank chuckles. He leans forward a bit, reaching up and brushing a few stray locks out of Connor’s eyes. Connor leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut. 

“That’s good. Last time I saw you, you weren’t in good shape,” Hank says. 

“I’m good now.”

“Yeah… Yeah you are.”

Connor’s eyes open a few seconds later. They meet Hank’s. 

“Can you lay with me?” He asks. His head tilts just a little, reminding Hank of a confused puppy. 

“Yeah Con, of course.” Hank hesitates though, despite the enthusiastic reply. He doesn’t know how to penetrate Connor’s fortress of pillows and blankets. He’s built honest-to-god  _ walls.  _

Connor, through the fog of pain medication, seems to sense Hank’s hesitance. He pushes down the blankets, letting them pool around his waist. With one arm, he nudges some of the pillows out of the way to give Hank some space. 

Hank watches, and realizes that the other arm that’s not moving is the one that broke. It’s still half-hidden under a pillow, but Hank catches a glimpse of blue-wrapped plaster. He presses his lips into a flat line, but doesn’t say anything. 

When Connor seems satisfied, he pats the space next to him. 

Hank follows easily, like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Initially, he lays on his side to face Connor. But after getting settled, he shifts to his back. Connor easily follows, resting his head on Hank’s chest. The blankets are pulled back up, and Hank relaxes easily into the warmth of the nest, and of Connor. 

“Do you want to talk about this?” Connor murmurs. 

Hank raises an eyebrow, starting to question just how ‘out of it’ Connor is. But Connor’s eyes are closed, with half of his face visible. It’s kind of hard to judge. 

“Yeah, I do… but not when you’re high on painkillers,” Hank replies. 

“Don’t wanna wait ‘till then,” Connor mumbles, making Hank snort. He reaches a hand up, out of the tangle of blankets, and runs it through Connor’s hair. Niles must’ve helped Connor shower, because his hair isn’t greasy like it was the last time Hank saw him. It’s soft now, curling beautifully. 

The Omega sighs heavily, melting into the touch. 

“I don’t either, but we have to.” Hank shifts as he speaks. His legs brush against Connor’s. They’re pressed together so tightly-- Hank can feel the weight of Connor’s cast on his belly. He can feel the warmth radiating off Connor. He can feel cold toes brush against his own. Hank never thought he’d be here. And he never wants to leave. 

“Can we enjoy this? We can…” Connor trails off to yawn. Even when the yawn is over, he doesn’t continue talking.

Hank breaths a laugh out of his nose. His heart is pounding against his ribs, so loud that he’s wondering if Connor can feel it. But the Omega doesn’t move. He just lays pressed against Hank, and breathing in that warm, late-summer campfire scent. 

Hank breathes in Connor’s fizzy citrus and peach. It’s calmed down now, no longer fueled by distress. It’s mellowed out, like all the bubbles that rose up when you first opened the bottle have popped. It’s no longer crackling in the glass. 

It’s just… it’s sharp citrus, cut through by calming peach. The carbonation brings life to it all, and Hank doesn’t think he’s smelled anything better. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, around 70% of this fic was inspired by [this picture](https://twitter.com/sputniksickle/status/1097061065966436352) of our main man, Brian Dechart. Oh well, it made a good fic, didn't it?
> 
> One more chapter to go in this fic!!! Chapter 3 isn't all that long, but it's a sweet wrap up to this fic's arc. It's going to be adorable and cute!! 
> 
> So thanks a bunch for reading this, and if you wanna talk to me more, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM)!! My pinned tweet on there is a collection of my A/B/O threads if you want to read more :D


	3. Act Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um... hahaha yeah this took a while. honestly, i had 93% of this chapter written, just life got in the way and i forgot about the other 7%. my bad, my friends. i've just had a whirlwind of the past few weeks!   
> but here it is, the happy and fluffy conclusion!!

Connor trails into the kitchen the following morning. 

He woke up to empty space next to him, but the place Hank had laid in was still warm. Connor carefully got up, still getting used to the weight of the cast on his left forearm. The pain medication he was on last night has worn off, but he doesn’t feel like taking another dose. All of the pain is just a dull ache… which is some kind of miracle. 

But he was going to be okay. Hank had rescued him.

And speaking of Hank, Connor wanders out of the hallway and sees him poking around the kitchen. Hank turns when he hears footsteps, and cracks a smile when he sees Connor. 

“Good morning,” he greets. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” Connor replies. He comes over to Hank, placing a hand on the Alpha’s chest. “The medication has worn off, but I’m not in too much pain. Some over the counter stuff will do just fine.”

Hank exhales, relieved. His hands curl around Connor’s waist, drawing the Omega in close. Connor relaxes into the hold easily, curling his arms over Hank’s shoulders. The cast lays awkwardly across Hank’s upper back, but he doesn’t mind all that much. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“For what?” Hank raises an eyebrow. 

“For everything,” Connor replies, head tilting. Hank huffs a laugh out through his nose. 

“I mean it,” Connor continues. “You’ve been… You’ve been so sweet to me. And you saved me last night… and laid with me.”

“Of course, Con.” Hank’s lips part in a smile, revealing that small gap between his two front teeth.

Neither of them say anything for a minute. Connor leans against Hank, resting his head on the Alpha’s shoulder. He gets one deep inhale of Hank’s comforting scent, and he sighs happily. 

“Do you want to talk about us?” Hank whispers the question. 

Connor nods a little, and hesitates to pull away. He really doesn’t want to leave Hank’s arms… but this is a conversation that requires eye contact. 

“Can we go sit down?” He asks. Hank nods, and pulls back. He slips one big hand in Connor’s, and leads Connor over to the couch. They settle in easily, sat close enough that their thighs and arms are pressed together. As an almost-nervous tic, Connor grabs the blanket that’s sprawled over the back and draws it over their laps. 

At first, neither of them say anything. Both don’t know where to start. There’s so much to discuss...

Hank wishes this conversation were more simple. If he was younger, he’d pull Connor in for a heady kiss and let that be the conversation. But he’s not twenty anymore. At fifty-four, a serious conversation is needed. Connor could be it,  _ the one, _ and they can’t just go falling head-first into this. 

Connor wishes he knew what to say. He’s never had anything more serious than a fling. He doesn’t know what you say when you spill your heart to a man you care so deeply about. Anxiety is rising in his throat too-- all the insecurities he’s pushed down over the years rising up. 

Neither one of them talks for a few long minutes, but Hank clears his throat and pulls both of them out of their heads. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Connor admits. 

It draws a laugh out of Hank, but the Alpha quickly backtracks when Connor throws him a look of mild distaste. 

“Sorry--” he apologizes. “I just don’t know either… the ‘conversation’ I had with my ex-wife wasn’t really even a conversation… We kinda rushed into things.”

“It’s okay,” Connor shifts. He turns towards Hank, one of his thighs shifting up into the Alpha’s lap. Hank, naturally, sets a hand on that thigh. 

“I’m just--...” it’s rare that Connor’s at a loss for words. He’s always been so level-headed and collected. “I’m scared. I’m 35 and unmated--”

“I’m 54,” Hank cuts in. 

Connor blushes, and laughs sheepishly. “Oh… yes…”

Hank laughs too. He starts to massage circles into Connor’s thigh. The touch helps relax the Omega. He lets out a breath, shoulders falling. 

“I’m just nervous. I’ve never had a serious relationship,” he admits with a soft voice. “I don’t know what to do, or how to vocalize it… but I know I want something with you.”

“I do too, Con,” Hank agrees with a nod. “Don’t be scared, you’re doing perfect.”

Connor’s blush intensifies, and he looks away shyly. “Am I? I feel awkward.”

“That’s what it’s like. It feels kinda shitty, doesn’t it?” Hank says. “I’m gonna be awkward too, if it helps. I haven’t done this kinda shit in a long time…”

Connor nibbles on his bottom lip nervously.

“I haven’t ever,” he quietly admits. 

This is something he isn’t sure how to broach. He wants to explain to Hank how good this all is and how happy he is, but there’s this voice in the back of his head. It tells him that sharing his deep insecurities is going to scare Hank off. The logical part of his brain says that that’s stupid. Hank cares for him dearly… 

But he can’t help it. Anxiety gets the best of him sometimes. 

“What’s going on?” Hank murmurs out the question. He tilts his head to the side a little, reaching a hand up to brush a few stray curls out of Connor’s eyes. From underneath the messy curls, Connor’s brown eyes look up and meet Hank’s.  One of Connor’s eyes is still bruised and swollen. The mottled bruise is stark against Connor’s pale skin. 

The sight makes Hank sick. He wants to beat the shit out of the Alpha who did this-- but now is not the time for anger. He lets out a long breath, and lets his fingers trail down the side of Connor’s face, over his jaw, and then settle at the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Connor visibly relaxes under the touch. It takes him a second to realize that he’s leaning up against Hank’s hand, then his eyes widen for a split second and he looks away shyly. 

“I can see those gears turning,” Hank says. 

Connor’s skin feel warm under Hank’s fingers. He wonders how he got here. How the events of his life have unfolded to lead him here. Connor puts a fair amount of faith into the butterfly effect-- so what minor actions, what little wing-flaps, he’s done to cause this, this hurricane, to happen?

It’s not that he’s complaining, he’s just confused. 

He’d never complain-- not under the warm touch of the Alpha of his fucking dreams. Hank’s a goddamn wet dream come to life. He’s handsome, he’s strong, he’s  _ big.  _

“I’m just… trying to not be anxious,” Connor replies eventually. He’s not sure how long he was in his own head, but Hank’s a patient guy. He’ll wait an eternity for Connor to suss out his thoughts. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you know?” Connor continues. He shifts, letting his head fall back against the couch cushions. His leg falls further into Hank’s lap, but the Alpha doesn’t mind at all. 

“Having a mate is such… it’s this big deal when you’re an Omega. You’re supposed to be  _ perfect,  _ everything an Alpha wants-- my mother and my grandmother built up this pedestal. I felt so lost for so long, because I was in my 30’s and hadn’t mated yet,” Connor exhales heavily. 

Hank doesn’t say anything, letting Connor finally let out all that’s been bottled up. It’s so rare for Connor to feel comfortable enough to talk about his deepest anxieties. Hank would never interrupt. 

“I wanted to please them, so I kept trying and trying,” Connor continues. “I was with all the wrong people, but I kept doing it because I didn’t want to disappoint them. I think I gave up though. Somewhere I stopped trying and just fell into work. It was exhausting, feeling like I wasn’t good enough, and I was letting them down.”

“Connor…” Hank murmurs. At some point, they’ve leant in close to each other. Their faces are only a few inches apart. Connor can feel Hank’s warm breath against his jaw. Hank closes the space, pressing his lips to Connor’s cheek. 

“You’re enough,” he says in between kisses. He plants a few more, then pulls only a few inches away. But it’s enough for their eyes to meet. “I know that that’s not gonna undo a lifetime of insecurity, but I know what it’s like. You don’t think I get weird looks for being 54 and mateless?”

Hank pauses, wondering if it’s a good time to uncork all of the emotions he’s hidden so deeply. But Connor put his heart on his sleeve, so fuck, he might as well. He takes a few deep breaths, and starts talking.  

“It got even worse when I was married. My family kept asking why we weren’t mated. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it.”

Hank pauses. Connor’s head tilts a little, watching a series of unidentifiable emotions play across the Alpha’s face. Something like sadness, regret… but it fades, and Hank keeps talking. 

“She didn’t want to though. She was a Beta... Didn’t have as strong of hormones and didn’t see the point in it. So I let it go, even if I wanted it,” Hank presses his lips into a flat line. “I sacrificed that for her, but I guess it didn’t matter in the end.”

Connor’s head bows. His forehead rests against Hank’s chin. He doesn’t say a word, and Hank doesn’t expect him to. This is a lot to process. Both of them rarely show their cards. 

“That shit doesn’t matter though. Not anymore.  _ You  _ matter,” Hank insists. “You’re enough for me. Fuck what anyone else says.” 

Hank’s vulgar, but sincere, tone makes Connor snort. Hank laughs too, and runs a hand through Connor’s unruly curls. His fingers get tangled in a few knots, but he gently works through them so he doesn’t hurt Connor. 

“So do you want to do this?” Hank raises an eyebrow. Connor, honest to god, giggles. He nods, bumping his head into Hank’s chin. 

“Yes, absolutely,” he says, breathless. 

It makes it sound like he’s accepting a marriage proposal. Shit-- it feels like he is. 

Hank’s chest swells, all warm and fuzzy and full of cotton. He pulls Connor closer, bringing the Omega into his lap. Connor’s clunky cast is pressed awkwardly between them, but neither care. His free arm is thrown over Hank’s right shoulder. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be a good boyfriend,” Connor rests his head on Hank’s other shoulder. “I have this habit of diving head first into work to avoid talking to people.”

“Shit, I dunno if I’ll be good either,” Hank laughs; something full belly that has both of them shaking. “I do the same, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Connor tilts his head as he talks. He brushes his nose against the side of Hank’s neck, inhaling that warm campfire scent. The warmth of it sinks into Connor’s skin, through his bones and down to his very core. He lets out a little happy sigh, nuzzling into Hank’s body. Hank hums quietly, pressing his lips into Connor’s hair. He can smell Connor’s own scent. That sweet, sharp carbonated peach lemonade. 

Together, their scents mix. 

They compliment each other, crackling and strong and warm. It smells like Fourth of July. Of homemade lemonade. Of peach cobbler. Of crackling fireworks. Of warm air. 

“Can I…” Connor starts, but he ends up trailing off from nerves. 

“Yeah?” Hank prompts. 

“Can I kiss you?” Connor whispers out the question. He shifts, picking his head up so they can meet eyes. 

“You don’t have to ask, Con,” Hank laughs a little. He reaches up, tucking a few fingers under Connor’s chin. Pale pink colors Connor’s cheeks. Hank knows that this is it. 

He leans in. Connor meets him halfway. 

Their lips meet awkwardly at first, the angle all wrong. Connor moves again, sitting up straighter, and their lips slot together properly. Their lips are both a little chapped, but it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s goddamn beautiful. 

The kiss breaks naturally. Both need air, and pull away together. 

Connor’s eyes slowly open, the color on his cheeks intensifying. 

“Why didn’t we do that sooner?” Hank jokes quietly. It makes Connor laugh. His eyes squint a little as he giggles, only cementing Hank’s thoughts. 

He’s a goner. Without hesitation, he’d give the world, the moon, and all the stars to Connor if asked. 

“I don’t know,” Connor murmurs. He leans in for another kiss, which Hank happily takes and returns. 

They sit like that, kissing sweetly and pressed together for god knows how long. Eventually, Connor gets tired, pulling away from Hank’s lips in order to tuck his head into the slope of Hank’s neck. Hank is fine with it, of course. Content fills his chest, a feeling that he hasn’t had in a long time. He’s absolutely okay with just sitting there, half-awake and sleepily cuddling. 

They finally move when one of their stomachs rumbles. They don’t know whose it is, but they’re both starving anyway. Neither has eaten in a while, and Hank  _ had  _ been looking for breakfast when Connor woke up… 

They just got distracted. 

So, reluctantly, they separate. Connor slides out of Hank’s lap, offering up a hand so the Alpha can stand up. Hank takes it happily, and leads Connor into the kitchen. Connor sits at the island, happy to let  _ his  _ Alpha make breakfast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly have no clue what my next fic is gonna be. i've got like half a dozen threads on twitter that could turn into full fics... so i guess we'll see, haha <3<3 
> 
> if ya'll want to check out my threads, they're [right here](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM)!!!

**Author's Note:**

> This has been crossposted on both [tumblr](http://geoffseightgreatestmistakes.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM)! I'm on twitter more so it's best if ya'll talk to me there. I even have a [collection](https://twitter.com/i/moments/1092095171532066816) on there of my A/B/O tweets :D


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